Page 33 of Pretty Pink Poison
“She looks happy with you.”
“I try. Trying to make it a life for a child rather than a life within the syndicate, if you know what I mean.”
Bianca gave him a small smile and patted his shoulder. “If you’re trying, you’re already halfway there.”
Jealousy burned through me like a fuse. She offered him a cordial pat when all I’d gotten for months was cold stares and clipped words. He had her attention—her softness—and it made me want to reach across the table and rip his arm off.
I didn’t want her. I couldn’t. But I didn’t want anyone else to have her attention either.
They continued to talk to one another, but Stefano talked over them to me. He wanted to talk ports, access, shipments. He wanted this, wanted that, wanted the conversation focused on how it could benefit him.
“Do you think this is the best time to discuss anymore?” I finally cut him off. “You’re on thin ice already with no other daughter to trade for another fuck up of yours. So, might be timeto give that daughter the time of day considering you haven’t seen her in months.”
Kraw rolled his eyes and whined about his hand. “None of this is the best time. I need a damn hospital.”
“Didyousay hi to Bianca?”
“What for? She’s a part of your family, now isn’t she?”
Yet, her father wanted some last scrap of control, and the only place he found it was in claiming fatherhood. “She’s still my daughter.” He slammed his hand down on the table. “Eat your damn bread,” he barked at her.
Bianca flinched at the command, eyes flashing toward me as if, even though we’d barely talked in months and I’d been cold to her, she wanted to warn me to not to react. She reached out for a roll, small hand trembling, and took two mechanical bites. “Happy, Father?”
“The whole thing,” he snapped.
Jameson’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, irritation creeping into his tone. “You kidding me?”
“No,” Krawson muttered from his seat. “That’srealparenting, Jameson. Or wouldn’t you know, because you’re spoiling that—”
Jameson’s hand moved fast as he swiped a knife to stab into Kraw’s other hand. And as the fucker wailed, Jameson stood up to finish the job, but I lifted a hand. “Jameson. Let me handle it. We don’t need a civil war at the dinner table.”
“Handle what?” Zarelli growled.
“For one, the fact that your nephew keeps talking out of turn.” My gaze landed on Stefano. “And two, the fact that you think you can still order Bianca around.”
“After arriving late, she’d never get special treatment at my table,” he hissed.
Was that his flex? I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “She’s never considered late tomytable because dinner doesn’tstart until she walks in. We wait for her—and every woman—until they arrive. She wants dinner to start two hours late, you’ll fucking wait whether she’s your daughter or not. Know why?”
His breath came heavier now, nostrils flaring, but I didn’t care. “Because she’sminenow. Not yours. And I’ll be damned if you think she’s going to answer to you.”
I turned my head just enough to catch Bianca’s eyes. “Eat whatever you want, leave the rest of the mess on your plate for your father to clean up.”
“You just want a piece of her,” Krawson grumbled loud enough for the whole table to hear.
The breath I drew in was slow, deliberate. “Repeat that.”
“What?” he stuttered, pale.
“I said repeat it to the whole table, Kraw. I want everyone to know what you said before I remove that small brain from that large skull of yours.”
He scoffed, “Please.”
I pushed back from the table, slow and measured. The sound of my chair legs dragging across the marble floor made the servers bolt from the room. My security shifted; everyone else tensed.
I cataloged Bianca’s every movement. Jameson’s arm had settled on the back of her chair while he leaned in to whisper something to her. She shook her head slowly, her blue eyes meeting mine as she murmured, “I’ll stay.”
That monster in me—the one that loved violence—rattled out of its cage and sighed a breath of relief at her bravery, at her wanting to witness what I was about to do.
